


Sleeping Cats Lie

by Krystalicekitsu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, M/M, Napping, Pre-Slash, Sleepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:31:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krystalicekitsu/pseuds/Krystalicekitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The case is over and it's time for all good doctors and their sociopaths to fall asleep. A task which John is finding difficult to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Cats Lie

It's been a very long case.

John doesn't usually go this long without sleep (Afghanistan notwithstanding) and he isn't actually sure why he hasn't passed out ages ago, but he's up. He's up and staring around their decimated flat, where Sherlock used some godawful complicated experiment with endless yards of baling yarn, washers and Mrs. Hudson's hair iron to- well, John's not actually sure. He'll remember it later.

After he sleeps about a week.

But Sherlock's finally gotten his fill of _deducing_ and is passed out on the sofa, still mostly clothed, face smushed into a pillow, mouth open and drooling slightly. One leg dangles off the couch in a way that would make John's knee kick up a fuss, but that Sherlock will hardly notice, John's sure. He'd managed to get his shoes off, and the one sock he can see is twisted sideways, the seams curling around the side of his foot. His scarf is scrunched up under his chin, brushing under an ear.

He looks about ten years younger.

John stares for a minute, too tired to seriously even think about straightening up either the flat or his flatmate, and the chair to his left looks so, so _enticing_. So very enticing and John wants to weep, because he knows that if he tries to sleep, he likely won't find it because he's still partially jacked up on adrenaline from the half mile chase through the warehouse. He needs to decompress, to let go of the 'oh god, oh god, I'm alive' feeling.

He's too tired to read, too tired to clean- he's afraid he might drift off into the void while scrubbing another one of Sherlock's experiments out of the sink. He's very much too tired to put his thoughts together enough for the blog. He needs- the telly.

Yes, perfect. Mindless activity with enough pull to keep him awake and engaging enough to wear him out and wind him down so he can pass out like his flatmate. Perfect. He flips it on, turns it to some action show from the States- something about a cop and a Navy commander blowing up a warehouse- and lets his eyes unfocus.

The show progresses through a knife fight and some meaningful looks- John's not sure what's going on, but he's wondering when they're going to get to the fucking because they fight like a married couple and if they smiled at each other more the sun would need glasses- and they'd just gotten to the part where the commander loses his shirt when he hears it.

A nearly silent snuffling sound.

He's so tired it takes a good minute for him to stop frowning at the telly, wondering what's wrong with the speakers. Half a minute after that to inspect the flat enough to determine that it's not the ice box or the microwave and that it's neither one of their mobiles. Fifteen after that to figure out it's his flatmate.

Sherlock is snoring.

Although John's not sure that's accurate to describe the low, barely-there rumbling noise followed by a slow exhale that'd been the noise he'd first picked up on. He sounded like a large, content cat.

Which wasn't far off the mark. Sherlock was rather like a cat, prissy and prim and perfectly aware of his own perfection. He certainly had the 'you're all morons, but I keep you around for my own amusement' look down.

John blinks. He'll blame that entire thread of thought on the lack of sleep, but now that he's thought it, he can't get rid of the comparisons flitting across his brain. The slanted eyes, the way he hyper-focuses when he's on the 'hunt', like a housecat stalking a very unfortunate sparrow. The way he'll sometimes just _look_ at you if he's displeased with your incompetence and it's not hard to imagine a tail flicking in annoyance at those times.

God, John thinks, I need to sleep.

Something loud explodes on the telly and John glances over long enough to catch the commander smiling a shit-eating sort of grin and quip something to his partner, handing over the prisoner.

Sherlock goes through another round of purring-snuffling and John turns the telly off, sinks down into the chair, closes his eyes and listens to his flatmate.

He'll take care of the yarn and the questionable growth in the sink tomorrow.


End file.
